The Sybil's Oracle Book Two

Chapter 10

By Pigwidgeon37

Dear Mr. Snape,

It is my sad duty to inform you of the tragic demise of your uncle, Mr. Ettore Alighieri, on 10 July at his house in Villaretto, Province of Turin. Among Mr. Alighieri’s possessions, a testament has been found, which will be opened in the presence of the surviving blood relatives or their representatives.

 As your mother, Mrs. Aminta Snape, is currently entrusted to the care of the Inverness Institute for the Incurably Ill, you are hereby kindly requested to act as her legal representative, being of age according to Italian Magical Law. The date set for the opening of the testament is Monday, 19 July 1976, 11 a.m. . Considering that your grandparents, Mr. and Mrs. Arturo Alighieri, are ancient and of precarious health, it is to take place at their mansion in Turin.

The circumstances of Ettore Alighieri’s death are currently being investigated by the Magical Law Enforcement; should you require information about the results achieved so far, a Law Enforcement representative will be at your disposal for any questions you might have.

Looking forward to meeting you in Turin, I remain

Yours sincerely

Celio Singarini

(Head of Department)

The letter had been lying in his living room when he arrived home after the evening he had spent with Nathalie, but he had been too tired and exhausted to read it right away. So he had only snatched it off the table and flung it on the nightstand before he went to bed, without even bothering to undress.

He perused it after coming downstairs for breakfast on the next morning. On the one hand, he thought while absentmindedly buttering a piece of toast, it was better to be done with all the bureaucratic stuff before he started his apprenticeship. But then, there was such a lot of exigencies pouring down like heavy rainfall on him these days that he was not sure whether he welcomed this additional incumbency. In spite of whatever he did or did not welcome, though, the testament was going to be opened tomorrow morning, and he had to be there. Which meant that he had to meet his grandparents. Were there other blood relatives? Severus did a quick mental tour d’horizon of the Italian part of his pedigree, but could not come up with any other living relatives falling into that category. All the better for him. Those he had met during the loathed stays in Italy together with his mother had been from the Bergamo branch, deadly annoying but not closely enough related to them for being expected to show up at Turin.

And the Ministry had even sent him a Portkey. How very thoughtful of them, he mused, for otherwise he would have needed to ask Clarissa or Lestrange… or Nathalie? Angrily, he flung the remaining half of toast on his plate, not sure where exactly this last idea had popped up from. To have sex with her had been an extraordinary experience, true, but that did not mean that she was in any respect a part of his life. On the contrary; he had to get her out of his mind and life as quickly as possible. Maybe he should never have succumbed to the temptation. This was far too hazardous—she was chief editor of Britain’s wizarding newspaper, and thus influential which, in his case, meant downright dangerous. What was he supposed to do if she got strange ideas about him? He had no intention of letting himself be talked into a relationship. How was she going to react, though, when he made that unmistakeably clear? It seemed that he had gotten himself into quite a mess by allowing his brain to slip temporarily out of his skull and right into his crotch.

And that was only one of his problems, if maybe the most complex one. There were other dilemmas nagging him, though. He was not sure whether he would be able to keep up the rhythm of nightly Death Eater meetings twice a week and a very demanding apprenticeship that was practically a full-time job. He did not have to participate in the missions yet, for Voldemort thought the responsibility of being in command to be incompatible with having to rely on one of his inferiors for Apparating. But what would the others think of him if he never took any active part in their actions? Had the members of the group that had seen to his uncle’s ‘tragic demise’ together with himself put two and two together, seeing the boy sleeping at Ettore Alighieri’s side, and spread the rumour of his abuse among the others? How was Clarissa going to react if she found out about Nathalie?

Severus suddenly realized that he really did not want to continue his breakfast—his stomach had clenched into a painful knot. The temptation of just going back to bed, pulling the duvet over his head and sleeping till the next morning was almost overwhelming. He had to somehow get those worries out of his system. The only question was: how? Studying was not going to help, not when his mind was shredded into small pieces by all those preoccupations. Should he go and see Clarissa? Bad idea, he still had Nathalie all over him, and her niece was way too perspicacious not to notice anything. A stroll, maybe? Having a look at the new arrivals at Flourish & Blott’s, buying some treats for Elias and Esmeralda… He could get a copy of the Daily Prophet and read it sitting in one of the street cafés… Considering how much the mere thought was cheering him up, maybe it was not a bad idea.

So he put his thoughts into action, told Peggy not to prepare anything special for lunch, and set out towards the end of the street where a horse chestnut tree, which to judge by its dimensions was at least tricentennial, marked the entrance to Diagon Alley. The light green door had not yet completely closed behind him when he heard somebody call his name. The street was almost empty so that he could not pretend he had not heard anything and duck into the crowd. Sighing with annoyance, he turned his head in the direction the voice had come from and saw a huddle of watery hues run towards him. Sybil. Just the person who was bound to make his day even worse.

Sybil seemed to thoroughly enjoy that she had spotted him. “Severus!” she called again over the jingling and rattling noises of her necklaces, bracelets and earrings, “Severus, what a nice surprise!” She skidded to a halt and flung out her hand towards him.

“Surprise indeed,” he snarled back, shaking it without much conviction. “What are you doing here, Sybil? I thought you were deep into crystal gazing or augury in some remote part of the world.”

She vehemently shook her head, almost blinding herself in the process with one of her earrings flying back and forth wildly. “No, no, I’m starting at Baton Rouge in October, so I wanted to spend the holidays in England.”

“You’re starting where?”

“Baton Rouge. It’s in the United States, in Louisiana. The Higher Institute of Clairvoyance, Divination and Augury, it’s quite famous, you know?”

Severus did, of course, not know anything about the institution, nor had he any desire to fill this gap in his general knowledge of the wizarding world. So he simply gave a noncommittal nod and a neutral “Mmh.”

“What about you, Severus? It’s… well, a bit strange to see you skulking around without having your nose buried in a book.”

Feeling irrationally guilty, and angry at her because she had caused the sensation, he snapped “Who told you I was skulking? I was on my way to Flourish & Blotts—”

“Oh, that’s a fortunate coincidence!” she interrupted him, her various adornments dangling and tingling in a perfect orchestration of her exaggerated enthusiasm. Severus cringed. “I have to go there as well. Listen, why don’t we sit down at the Capuchin’s Chaperon just for a moment? They do the most wonderful cappuccino—well, that’s obvious, isn’t it?—and we could have a farewell cup. I’m going to stay at Baton Rouge for at least three years, maybe even four or five, and we won’t be allowed any contact with the world outside…”

“Don’t tell me you’re sacrificing your ebullient social life for your Inner Eye’s sake?” Severus said acidly.

As he had expected, the irony was completely lost on her. Why the hell had that girl been allotted to Slytherin House? Not that it mattered terribly anymore, but still, it would be interesting what exactly the Sorting Hat had seen or heard in that head…

“Of course, but it’s a small sacrifice if you look at it the right way.” They had arrived at the café and taken their seats. “Because they only take five students per course, which means that there is a total of fifteen students at most—”

“Fifteen!” Severus exclaimed, “But how—”

But he was interrupted by the arrival of the waiter, a bored-looking young man with spots and rabbit front teeth, clad in what looked remotely like a capuchin’s cowl. “Good morning,” he said a tone of voice that would have made any funeral orator pale with envy, “Today’s chaperons are croissants, croissants with apricot jam, croissants with blackberry jam, croissants with chocolate cream, croissants with custard, brioches, apple tart, treacle tart, fruitcake, buns, crumpets, plum cake, apple pie. Which of them would you prefer to chaperon your cappuccino?” After having delivered this impressively monotonous and certainly not appetizing speech, he abruptly clamped his mouth shut and simply stood there, staring at a spot on the opposite side of the street.

Severus was not quite sure whether he should feel outraged or exhilarated, but then decided for the latter and hence had enormous difficulties to keep his face straight when he ordered a plain croissant, hoping that it was the least sweet item on sale here. Sybil asked for treacle tart, managing to bite her lower lip for restraint and talk at the same time, which Severus thought was quite an amazing ability for a non-ventriloquist.

“So,” he said, “You were telling me about that Institute. How many students did you say they keep there? Fifteen or fifty?”

“Fifteen, of course, and that’s the maximum. Normally, there are only nine or ten. They don’t start courses every year, but only every second, and luckily those with even numbers. I did the test—”

“You did the… when did you do the test?”

“Shortly before the N.E.W.T.s, Professor Coleridge got it directly from America in a sealed envelope.”

The waiter slouched towards them, carrying a tray with their cappuccinos-cum-chaperons. Severus noticed that he was wearing sandals and thick socks of coarse wool. The perfect capuchin monk, except for his obvious lack of enthusiasm for his vocation. Sibyl and Severus grinned at each other, suddenly feeling that on the immense sea of adult life, they had reached a coast bearing a remote resemblance to the Isle of School, and took a bite of their sweets.

“Treacle tart!” Sybil said with a rapt look on her face, “I’m trying to eat as many typically British dishes as I can before my departure. I know that in the south of the United States you’re supposed to eat really well, but then it’s all chilli and beans and sweet corn, at least that’s what I heard.”

Swallowing a bite of truly delicious croissant, Severus asked “And why did you choose that school in America? I mean, there must be something else, a little nearer than that.”

This was probably the first time he had ever seen Sybil look smug and superior. “Yes,” she answered, “of course there is something else. Although the array of possible choices is a lot greater when it comes to disciplines like Charms or Transfiguration. But—” she took a sip of her cappuccino “—Baton Rouge is the best there is, no point in denying that. And I want to attend the best school, otherwise why should I even bother?”

Et voilà, he thought, that brings us much closer to answering the question ‘Why Slytherin?’ “And afterwards?” he asked.

“We’ll see. I don’t waste too many thoughts on that now. The important thing is to get the best possible training. You can make lots of money, you know, being a first rate clairvoyant. Maybe not here, but there’s a lot of possibilities out in the great, big world.”

She had already finished her coffee and cake and gestured for the waiter to bring her the same again.  

“What about the others?” she inquired, jerking Severus abruptly out of his musings about this surprisingly Slytherin version of Sybil Trelawney.

“Others? What others?”

“Our housemates, Severus. I know you’re not much of a social animal but unless you’re suffering from acute loss of memory, I suppose you remember them. If not the names, then at least the faces.”

He smirked at her. “Of course I remember them. Only I haven’t seen much of them lately. Except for Clarissa, of course.”

Taking a huge bite of her second piece of treacle tart, Sybil nodded wisely. “Same for me. I saw Mathilda once—poor dear, she’s quite miserable.”

“Why would Mathilda be miserable? I mean besides the obvious reason of being the most boring human being on the whole planet? She’s graduated, she’s rich, and she’ll marry her adored stuffed shirt Barty. Where’s the problem?”

“The problem lies exactly there. Her father isn’t overly pleased with her engagement to Barty.”

Severus was momentarily taken aback. What objections could Mathilda’s father possibly have against her marrying Barty Crouch? The Crouchs were an old family, well-known and respected, generations of Crouchs had served the Ministry of Magic. The Reynolds family, on the other hand, was old and rich. When Severus told Sybil so, she laughed.

“Yes, of course, superficially everything seems to speak in favour of the ideal match. But don’t forget that Mathilda’s father owns Reynolds & Lovegood. It’s a huge enterprise, and all he wants for his business to thrive and prosper is peace and stability. And you have read about Barty’s father, haven’t you?” Severus nodded. “Then you’ll understand that Oliver Reynolds is seriously preoccupied by Crouch’s constant attempts at more or less declaring martial law in Great Britain. It’s not good for the economy.”

“Yes, I understand that, but it isn’t poor Mathilda’s fault. The girl couldn’t kill a fly, much less do anything to influence British economy.”

Sybil gave an impatient sigh. “Of course Mathilda can’t do anything, but think of the symbolic value of such a marriage. For many people, which also includes people at the Ministry, it would mean that economy associates itself with politics, and rather radical politics at that. And don’t forget,” she added, brandishing her cappuccino cup like a weapon, “that Mathilda’s mother is Roger Lovegood’s sister.”

Severus cast her a look of total incomprehension. “So what?”

“Severus, Roger Lovegood is the rector of the Aurors’ Academy.”

He glared at her. “Yes, what’s the big deal?”

“You don’t have a clue, do you? Okay, so I’ll explain. Roger Lovegood is in a constant struggle against the Ministry, because they want to shorten the duration of the Aurors’ training, in order to have more Aurors in less time. Lord Voldemort wipes them out as if they were words written with a piece of chalk on a blackboard. Lovegood of course refuses to cooperate, arguing that his students aren’t to be used as cannon fodder, and certainly not after some ridiculous abridged version of the original training syllabus. His enemy number one is Peter McDonald, head of the Auror Supervision Committee, who wants to refill his ranks and is, of course, on Mr. Crouch’s side. But number two and a close second is Mr. Crouch himself because he perpetually nettles the minister to simply override Lovegood, change the Academy’s statute, put it under direct ministerial authority and churn out new Aurors by the month.”

Severus nodded, open-mouthed. “I see. So the Reynoldses are practically equidistant from both Academy and Ministry, but Mr. Reynolds fears that, if Mathilda marries Barty, the equilibrium might be lost and everything might go according to old Crouch’s wishes.”

“Exactly. And now think for a moment of Mathilda, being used as a pawn in that game, completely helpless and obsessed by the only wish to marry Barty, so she would be able to leave her parents’ house as soon as possible. Which is about the only thing she won’t be able to do.”

What a highly interesting piece of information, Severus thought. The intricacies of politics had even made him forget his own problems. “So I suppose the Malfoys are lucky because their son marries a girl that is as good as French.” He motioned for Sybil to wipe away the moustache the milk foam had formed on her upper lip.

“You can say that again.—Is it gone? Okay.—Yes, because there are certain rumours—nothing of substance, of course, but then you know how rumours are—that Lucius’s father isn’t entirely averse to Lord Voldemort’s cause. Thus, they couldn’t have made a better choice. The Lestrange family is beyond any such doubts, and the French part of them even more so. Do you know when the wedding is planned to take place?”

“I think I remember it was to be the autumn equinox.”

“Fine, so I’ll still be here. Provided he invites me,” she added, a bit ruefully.

“Well,” Severus said, “I suppose he’ll invite all of us.” And Nathalie would be there in those ice-blue robes…

“So,” Sybil said, waving to the gloomy waiter for their bill, “what about your plans, then?”

~~~~*~~~~

If he had felt depressed yesterday morning, Severus thought, standing on the terrace, portkey in hand, today was not going to be much better. Not only was there still a certain amount of anxiousness lingering in his mind, for after all he could not be entirely sure about the Italian Law Enforcement not having found any hint that might point them to him, he was also everything but enthusiastic about having to see his grandparents. His memory of them had faded a little with the years—it had been more than five years since the last time he had met them—but the memory of how he had always felt in their presence was still as vivid as ever. No matter how often he told himself that he was going to be back here, in his house, his refuge, only a few hours later, the uneasiness persisted. But it was five minutes to eleven, and he definitely had to go.

One tap of his wand on the shimmering surface of the portkey—it was no Ferrari, of course, after all, this was Ministry property, and they did not aim at luxury but solely at functionality—and he was jerked into space, through an immobile tornado of colours caused only by the rapidity of his own movement through space, to make a not-quite-elegant landing in the entrance hall of his grandparents’ palazzo in Turin.

They were right in saying that the olfactory was the most primeval and thus most powerfully suggestive of senses. Whatever he had forgotten about his numerous visits here came back in a rush, assaulting him with images and voices, nearly causing him to stagger, because the perspective of the room he was standing in was shifting from Severus-the-boy’s to Severus-the-adult’s and back again. It was an eerie feeling, to witness his self writhe under the forceful grip of the past, trying to decide which Severus it belonged to, the boy or the adult, grabbing for his older version to hold on to, but constantly pulled back by the past’s vigorous tentacles. At long last, though, he was able to decide the struggle in favour of his nowadays self by reminding himself of what he had done to cause his presence in this house. He was a Death Eater, he had accomplished a successful mission, he was a man, not a boy. He could almost feel himself click into place.

Just in time, because a middle-aged wizard was striding towards him, arms raised in a perfectly clichéd, but equally Italian-to-the-core gesture of welcome, which Severus only hoped was not going to be fully completed. For once, the Gods were listening—the arms did not entrap his shoulders. Only his right hand got caught in a surprisingly limp double-handed grip.

“Mr. Snape! I am glad you could come. My name is Singarini, Celio Singarini, from the Ministry of Magic. There aren’t many people here, as you will already have guessed, after all, your grandparents are the only surviving blood relatives… what with your aunt having died in that tragic accident…” He managed a suitably mournful expression, and then continued, “And, as I already wrote to you, there is the Law Enforcement officer in charge of the investigation of your uncle’s death.”

“Er, yes,” Severus said, trying to find the right tone of dejected curiosity, “That’s what I wanted to know above all. You only wrote about my uncle’s tragic death and about an inquiry being performed—that certainly suggests an unnatural death. There was nothing in the English papers, though, and I don’t get any Italian ones, so would you mind telling me what happened?”

“Well,” Singarini said, a bit hesitatingly, “That’s what the Law Enforcement is trying to find out. The one thing we are sure of, anyway, is that he was murdered—”

They had already been on their way across the entrance hall towards the staircase, and so Severus was able to stop dead in his tracks and ask, in utmost surprise, “Murdered? Who on earth would murder my uncle?”

Now Singarini was looking very uneasy. “Mr. Snape,” he said after a short pause, “I’m not sure how well you knew your uncle…”

Severus shrugged. “As well as one normally knows any relatives living thousand miles away, I suppose. I used to see him once a year, more or less. Except for my summer holidays three years ago, which I spent almost entirely here because of my mother’s… uh, health problem. But what were you alluding to?”

“It… uh, seems that your uncle had certain… well, habits,” Singarini said, his expression growing more embarrassed by the second, “He… erm… was not exactly attracted to women…”

They had started climbing the stairs now, and Severus was thoroughly enjoying the other’s awkwardness at explaining to him that not only had his uncle been gay—which in itself was enough to make your average male Italian blush with shame—but also a paedophile.

“Not attracted to women, you say? Does that mean he was gay?”

Of course he blushed, poor man. “Y-yes, but that wasn’t the only… uh, problem. It’s more about the age of his… erm, well, his…” He was unable to find an appropriate word and thus left the end of the sentence dangling for Severus to catch and try to finish it for himself.

“Sorry, I seem to be a bit slow on the uptake,” Severus said, pausing shortly on the first floor landing. “Are you insinuating that my uncle used to interfere with… boys?”

Singarini nodded. “Exactly. Very embarrassing. Very awkward indeed. Such an old family and… well, you wouldn’t have found anything even in the Italian papers. We hushed it all up to avoid a scandal.”

“I can’t say I am not grateful,” Severus said, giving him a weak smile.

“That’s okay,” the ministry wizard said jovially, patting his shoulder. “But I think we should proceed to opening the testament now. You can discuss the… er, other matter with Picchio—that’s the Law Enforcement officer—after that.”

He flung open the carved wooden door leading into the main salon. Drawing a deep breath which, loaded as it was with smell-induced memories, failed to steady him, Severus entered the room. It seemed gloomier than he remembered. Probably because now, he was tall enough to see not only the sky but the trees and grass stretching behind the high windows, and thus the contrast between inside and outside appeared a lot sharper. The walls and ceiling were covered in carved wooden panels, so dark that they seemed almost black, quadrangle after quadrangle filled with scenes from Italian history, battle following battle, horses, rising on their hind legs, eyes rolling, mouths foaming, hooves flailing, swords brandished by powerful forearms on which the veins were standing out thick and rope-like, warriors agonizing, warriors in ecstatic triumph, ships ravaged by flames, pitch and boiling oil being thrown from the top of city walls on the unfortunate assailants turned into living torches…

“Mr. Snape?” Singarini’s mellow Mediterranean baritone offered a welcome bridge to cross the gap between childhood horrors and solid reality.

“Sorry, I… I was reminiscing. You might be able to imagine the impression this room made on me when I was little…”

The Italian wizard gave him a sympathetic smile. “Used to haunt your dreams, I suppose. That combined with the shocking news about your uncle… Are you up to greeting your grandparents, or should we wait for a moment?”

“Thank you, that’s very considerate. But I think I can manage.”

He swiftly crossed the large room, moving towards the high-backed chairs that held the withering forms of his grandparents. They had to be well into their nineties now—not that that was already old age for wizards, but they had seen two wars, lost many relatives. They were wizened and shrunk, looking much older than Dumbledore who was their senior by almost thirty years. Swallowing his disgust, Severus bent down to kiss two pairs of wrinkled cheeks, trying not to inhale their stale smell of near-death. They only nodded in response to his salute, and he sat down in a chair beside them, not too close though, so that he could breathe a little more freely.

Singarini, who had been wordlessly watching the intermezzo, summoned a table and chair for himself, pulled a well-known, sealed envelope out of an inner pocket of his robes and showed it to Severus and the ghostly Alighieris.

“Please ascertain that the seal is unbroken.” His tone had a businesslike quality now.

Severus nodded; the old couple did not seem to have seen or heard anything. But then, this was Italy where formalities were only there for not being bothered with. Singarini retired behind the table, sat down and broke the seal. An eerie echo of Severus’s own voice of not yet two weeks ago, he read out aloud, “Turin, 25 August 1973. Last will and testament. I, Ettore Alighieri, hereby bequeath all my possessions, movables and immovables, to my nephew Severus Snape. A legacy of 1500 (one thousand five hundred) galleons shall be paid to Beatrice Ragnatela, my housekeeper. My uncle and aunt, Arturo and Paolina Alighieri, should they still be alive at the time of my death, shall be allowed to choose whichever of my personal belongings they desire to keep in my memory. Seal and signature.—Congratulations, Mr. Snape,” he said, looking up from the document. “It seems that you have become a rich man all of a sudden. You don’t even have to pay the legacy to Signora Ragnatela.”

“Why shouldn’t I—I mean, of course I’m going to pay—”

“No, Mr. Snape,” Singarini replied calmly, rising from his chair, “You won’t be able to do that. She’s dead as well.”

Severus thought it best to simply gawk at him, open-mouthed. Then he said, “I… I’m… this is all a bit too much for me. I won’t pretend that my uncle’s death struck me as a great tragedy, because I barely knew him. But… but that he was murdered… and old Ragnatela dead too… and why did he leave everything to me? I mean, there’s my mother… she should get it all, not I!”

“That is a very noble thought, Mr. Snape. But look at the date of the testament. It was obviously written during the summer you spent here. We tried to contact your mother, Mr. Snape. We know about the… er, problem she had. Evidently, your uncle thought it better for you have the money instead of your mother—she might have used it all to finance her drug habit. Believe me, it is better this way. And now come,” he said, putting his hand under Severus’s right elbow, “let me take you to Picchio. If you want to know more about your uncle’s death, that is.”

Severus nodded. “Of course. I’ll just take my leave from my grandparents.”

~~~~*~~~~

Half an hour later, the three men were sitting at Milano e Baracca, Turin’s oldest café under the arcades surrounding the main square, sipping aperitifs and discussing Severus’s past, present and future. Aldo Picchio, the Law Enforcement officer, had turned out to be a surprisingly sympathetic fellow in his mid-fifties, native of Florence and therefore speaking the beautiful dialect of that city. He was nowhere near as embarrassed about Ettore Alighieri’s sexual orientation as Singarini had been.

“You see,” he said, reclining in his chair and stretching his jeans-clad legs—Severus and Singarini had discarded their robes as well, immediately after leaving the gloomy palazzo—and draining his second glass of Campari mixed with white wine and a dash of lemon, “he should have seen it coming. If a man chooses to fuck twelve-year-old boys—” Singarini cringed “—he should at least take some precautions. But his friends—and they’re quite a bad lot, I can tell you—told me that he never put any wards on his house, never did more than simply lock the door. Practically invited them in, so to speak. You can’t do that in Italy. I mean, you couldn’t even do it if you were straight and only fucked girls. It simply doesn’t work that way here. You slip your hands into somebody’s underpants, next day you’ve got the family on your threshold, brandishing their wands.”

Severus nodded pensively. “Yes, that seems quite logical. But who are the boy’s relatives? Did you find them?”

Picchio gave an angry grunt and ordered another drink. “That’s one of my many problems. It seems that the boy was a stray. Picked up somewhere—you know Turin. Big city, lots of strangers, lots of immigration from the south… It’s going to take us a lot of time to find out the boy’s identity. If we find it out at all… But somehow, his relatives seem to have traced him. It’s the only possible explanation. Doesn’t account for the boy being dead, though, but that might just as well be your uncle’s doing. Or the lad got in the way of a stray curse. No wonder the culprits ran for it—must have been a big shock.”

The conversation continued along those lines for a while, long enough for Severus to be completely sure that there was not even the shadow of a suspicion about the murder having been committed by anybody but the boy’s relatives. Picchio then took his leave and left the other two wizards to talk about the next steps concerning Severus’s heritage.

“Your grandparents have already refused to keep any of your uncle’s belongings,” Singarini said, “Which is understandable, considering the circumstances of his death. Which means that whatever there is besides the house, and that’s only the money, will be transferred to you as soon as possible. Your bank—what’s the name again? Gringott’s, yes, that’s it, they have a branch here in Turin, so we can simply entrust the money to them, and you’ll find it in your vault in London in a few days’ time. As for the house, you’ll have to wait until the Law Enforcement has finished their business there. It won’t take them too long, for the have already been over it more than once. Then we’ll merely send you the key.”

“I think,” Severus said slowly, carefully choosing his words, “that maybe I’d like to sell the house. I don’t think I need it, for I don’t have any intention of leaving England…”

“Oh, but you might keep it as a summer residence,” Singarini objected. “Anyway, I’d advise you to keep it, at least for some time. Wait until the shock has subsided and you’ve got used to the thought of having a house and lots of money. Take your time, you’re in no hurry.”

“Maybe that would be better. Yes, I suppose you’re right. But, as you said, I’m still under the effect of all those… well, I suppose you could call them news. I’m expecting to wake up anytime, for this seems to be a dream rather than reality. I’ll follow your advice, anyway. For the moment, I’ll leave everything as it is, and decide later when I’ve put some order to my thoughts.”

~~~~*~~~~

Shortly after arriving home, he was called by a very distressed-looking Clarissa, who demanded to see him, and rather urgently.

“Is there anything wrong?” he asked, suddenly anxious and also a bit guilty for he felt that he had been neglecting her lately.

“No, not really. I’d just like to be with you for a while unless you have… other projects.”

Choosing not to inquire what exactly she was implying by the ominous pause, he replied, “No, not that I know of. I’ll have to study later on, but it can wait until tonight. Come whenever you want.”

Ten minutes later, she was standing in his living room, pale, eyes a little too bright, hands clenched into fists. Severus got up to shake her hand but, to his surprise—not entirely unwelcome—she flung herself into his arms. Only now did he have the occasion of noticing that the night with Nathalie had indeed changed something within him: for the first time, he had the distinct impression of holding a young woman when he held Clarissa, not just a friend whose gender was of secondary, if of any, importance. All of a sudden, stroking her hair was not merely a soothing gesture anymore for he was a man and she was a woman, and there was a vast range of meanings this gesture could assume; friendship being one of them, but definitely not the only one. The age of innocence had definitely come to an end.

“What’s the matter, Clarissa?” he asked her, never stopping the soothing movement of his hand over her hair. “Has your father—”

She shook her head against his shoulder, tickling his nose with her black locks. “No,” she said, looking up at him but not loosening the embrace, “I’m a bit nervous, that’s all.”

Neither of them was wearing robes, Severus was in jeans and a short-sleeved shirt, and Clarissa was clad in a light summer dress. There was not much fabric to separate body from body, and the sensation of her breasts against his chest was a little too intense for him to remain so close to her.

“Let’s have a cup of chocolate,” he said therefore, gently prying her arms from around his waist, “It’s going to calm you, and you can tell me what is ailing you.” Her hands still within his own, he pulled her over to the couch, picked up the book he had been reading, put a bookmark into it, and made her sit down.

When Peggy had brought chocolate for her and tea for him, accompanied by a plate of delicious-looking éclairs—half with cheese cream, the other half with strawberry cream—Clarissa seemed to have regained some composure.

“I’m sorry,” she muttered, her face half-buried in the giant mug, “I didn’t mean to burden you with my problems…”

“Come now,” he replied, “It seems that burdening each other with our respective sorrows and problems has become a sound tradition by now, hasn’t it? Why should we discontinue it? We’re out of school, but that doesn’t mean we can’t share our problems anymore.”

Clarissa gave him a grateful smile. “I’m glad you see it that way, you know? I somehow was afraid that now… I mean we don’t share the same living quarters any longer, and the times of joint meals and classes are over… I guess I was afraid we might drift apart, just like that, imperceptibly, until one day we’d be nothing more than acquaintances with a common past. It scares me.”

“Was that what you wanted to talk about?”

“No,” she said, shaking her head, “That wasn’t it. I wouldn’t have brought it up, but I’m glad all the same that you did. But I needed somebody who’d understand that I’m more afraid of tomorrow than I can say.”

Now Severus was completely lost. “Tomorrow? What will happen tomorrow—”

“Severus, you can’t have forgotten! The initiation! Tomorrow is 20 July, for Merlin’s sake! You can’t be all calm and aloof and smug about it, I don’t buy that, that’s ridiculous, I—”

“Clarissa!” he interrupted her. “Clarissa, wait a moment before you scratch my eyes out. I won’t be initiated together with the rest of you. I’ll have to wait…”

“Oh,” she said when he had finished his story, “That’s… that’s awful, Severus. I’m sorry, truly sorry. Of course it’s a sensible decision, but then… To think that Cedric, that… that nonentity, is allowed to bear the Mark, and you, the one who would really deserve it, don’t get it.”

“That can’t be helped, I’m afraid,” he said, shrugging, “But tell me why you are so afraid of it. Considering that it’s an honour and all…”

She nodded, the haunted look suddenly back in her eyes. “Yes, it is. But don’t forget that we are received amongst the brotherhood only on probation. We have to prove ourselves, and our loyalty… If we fail…”

Severus, who had never wasted one single thought on the question of the others having to undergo a very strict examination before their final acceptation within the ranks of the Death Eaters was granted, had become rather curious. “What happens if you fail? You won’t be… killed, will you?”

“No. But the Dark Mark will be taken away.”

“I see. I wasn’t aware it could be taken away, though, I thought—”

“Well, technically it doesn’t come off,” she said, her voice now very shaky. “It only comes off together with… together with your arm. And,” she added swallowing convulsively, “Practically all of your magical abilities go with it. It’s terrible, Severus, terrible…”

Now she was crying. In dry, hard sobs that shook her whole body. Severus stood up and moved over to sit beside her, his right arm protectively around her shoulders. “But that’s an ultimate punishment, Clarissa,” he tried to make her see the whole—admittedly daunting—question from a more rational point of view. “You receive it if you’re a traitor, not for failing or committing a simple error. I mean, there is chastisement for that, but nothing nearly as drastic as that. Now don’t be so afraid,” he said, rubbing her back, “And don’t forget that I’m going to be there as well. Without a mask, so I can smile at you and—”

Their first kiss tasted of chocolate and strawberries, its overall sweetness enhanced by the bitter aftertaste of his tea and by the consciousness that she had been the one to start it.